Don’t raise unruly people in extreme cold weather

Chapter 871

In the heart of this desert locked in an eternal winter, several geothermal areas are like the earth's last gasp before death, stubbornly emitting heat in the severe cold of minus 40 degrees Celsius.

The boiling spring water struggled out from the depths of the frozen soil, tearing open wounds emitting white mist on the vast ice field, and turned into the only remaining life in this land of death.

The tribe's black tents huddled tightly around the hot spring like a flock of frozen ravens.

The felt of the tent had long been hardened by the sulfur, but it still tightly wrapped around the huddled life inside.

This is the only mercy in the extremely cold desert - the hot steam from the spring water flows between the tents, bringing warmth for the next breath to the lungs that are about to freeze.

The ragged tribesmen, wrapped in hardened felt blankets, worked hunched over by the spring.

The women knelt on the frozen rocks and beat their frozen clothes, each blow causing blood to ooze from their cracked knuckles; the men scooped up hot spring water in rusty iron pots and boiled unknown wild grasses and a few grains of cereals.

The children were chasing each other barefoot in the shallows, their purple ankles were covered with thick chilblains, and their laughter was torn to pieces by the biting cold wind as soon as it came out.

Several old men with white hair and beards squatted beside the spring, tremblingly grinding dried herbs - these ancestral recipes could once cure fever, but now they can hardly relieve even the slightest frostbite.

However, beneath this seemingly calm surface, the tribal chieftain Azhar is like a poisonous snake lurking in a warm nest, secretly spitting out his tongue and plotting a rebellion.

The burly tribal chief stood next to the largest hot spring, his armor glowing coldly in the steam.

The wool stuffed in the gaps of his armor had long been turned black and hard by the sulfur, just like his increasingly twisted ambition.

His hawk-like eyes scanned every resource of the tribe: the camels with bony ribs that had difficulty standing; the remaining, moldy food in the cellar; and even the heirloom copper kettle in the arms of an old man - in his eyes, these were nothing more than bargaining chips for power.

The survival of the tribe is far less important than his personal ambitions.

"The Imperials have taken our pastures!" he shouted to the gathered young warriors, deliberately ignoring the fact that it was the extreme climate that caused the grass to wither.

His voice was like a scimitar dipped in snake venom, accurately opening the old wounds in every soldier's heart.

"Now, they want to get their hands on these hot springs too!" Before he finished speaking, he kicked over a basket of freshly picked hot spring algae. The green juice splashed onto the ice and instantly solidified into a distorted pattern.

This deliberate action immediately aroused roars of anger from the young soldiers.

Their faces flushed and their fists were clenched white, but no one noticed that the destroyed algae were the few food sources that could supplement vitamins for the tribe in this harsh winter.

Deep in the crypt, Azhar's confidants were counting the weapons they had obtained in exchange for the tribe's rations.

They traded their last bit of food on the black market for rusty swords.

Underage boys were forcibly conscripted, given weapons according to the so-called "ancient traditions", and practiced outdated combat skills in the cold wind.

No one dared to reveal a cruel fact: these warriors riding skinny camels and wielding inferior weapons were nothing more than moving targets in front of the empire's steam mechas and muskets.

At the edge of the hot spring, several tribal elders, wrapped in worn felt, watched everything in silence.

Their silence was more suffocating than the howling north wind. Their cracked lips trembled slightly, but no sound came out.

His cloudy old eyes counted the newly dug graves in the snow - the pits were pitifully shallow, the frozen soil was as hard as iron, and the hoe could only leave a few white marks when digging.

In some pits, the dead's stiff fingers were still exposed, as if they were trying to grasp the last bit of life.

There was a commotion and Azhar's confidants passed by carrying the frozen body of a woman.

The elders looked away immediately. Some pretended to study the cracks on the ice, while others lowered their heads to fiddle with the long-ineffective divination bone fragments. Their hunched backs were filled with helplessness and fear - these old men knew the price of resistance better than anyone else.

The scene in my memory is unforgettable: after the last rebellion, the bodies of the entire youth hunting team were nailed to the ice field, like twisted ice sculptures, their empty eye sockets forever staring at the gray sky.

At this time, Azhar was playing with the malachite-inlaid scimitar in his warm tent.

The sapphire on the hilt was dazzlingly blue. It was bought in exchange for thirty winter blankets from the tribe - those were supposed to be used to wrap the elderly and children to keep them warm.

The whale oil in the alchemical furnace was burning fiercely, and the melted snow water condensed into beads on the silver wine glass, which he then casually poured onto the felt carpet.

The faint cry of a baby could be heard outside the tent, but it was soon drowned out by the howling wind and snow.

He sipped the mead slowly, the amber liquid swaying in the cup.

In his eyes, those tribesmen who died of hunger and cold outside the tent were nothing more than a string of numbers, bargaining chips for power.

He was already calculating how many lives he would have to sacrifice in order to earn the glorious title of "anti-enemy hero" in the history books.

As for the future of the tribe? It's just a pawn on the chessboard that can be discarded at any time.
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In the biting cold wind, Azhar's messengers quietly traveled through the desert. Their footprints were soon buried by the new snow, but the conspiracy was growing in the dark.

Deep in the Blackrock Mountain formed by volcanic lava, the kings and chiefs of several tribes gathered secretly.

They sat around the sulfur pool, the firelight illuminating their gloomy faces.

Azhar stood in the middle of the sulfur pool, the rising heat blurring his hideous face.

He slowly raised his hand, palm facing upward, as if holding up the anger of the entire tribe: "Look at those dogs wagging their tails and begging for mercy! The Empire rewarded them with energy towers, allowing them to live like livestock in greenhouses-"

His voice suddenly rose, and he grabbed a ceramic cup and smashed it against the rock wall: "And us? We, the warriors who refused to kneel, will freeze to death like wild dogs by the hot spring!"

The crisp sound of the ceramic cup exploding on the rock wall shocked all the kings and chiefs.

Azhar stepped forward in the heat mist, his bronze boots crushing the pottery shards on the ground. "A year ago, when my sister froze to death on the migration road, those traitors were drinking hot wine under the energy tower!"

His voice suddenly choked, but immediately turned into anger: "Now, it's our turn!"

The kings and chiefs exchanged uneasily glances. Rumor has it that Azhar's sister committed suicide because she could not bear the humiliation because he wanted to defile her.

But no one spoke out about this at this time.

The old Ursa Khan touched the scar on his face left by the imperial musket, and his skinny fingers trembled slightly.

But Azhar did not give them time to think - he clapped his hands three times, and his confidants carried out an iron-wrapped wooden box.

The moment the lid of the box was opened, everyone gasped: twenty old-fashioned muskets were neatly arranged, emitting a black metallic glow.

Azhar grabbed one, with the crescent tribe's totem engraved on the butt. "I bought it with twelve of the most beautiful girls. They are now serving the traitors in the crescent tribe's tent!"

He laughed wildly and threw the gun to the nearest chieftain, "But soon, these guns will make the Crescent Tribe cry for mercy!"

In the hot mist of the sulfur pool, Azhar's figure was like a demon: "We will take action tonight and rob their energy tower! Let those traitors also have a taste of the feeling of having their fingers frozen off!"

(End of this chapter)